


Never Again

by 30xf



Series: 201 Days Of X Files [85]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:04:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30xf/pseuds/30xf





	Never Again

I lay on my side, with my back to the hospital room door. I hear it open, but don't bother to turn over. I know it's him. I hated having to call him to come get me, but it was either him or my mother, and I'd just as soon not have my mother know what I just went through. Paper crinkles as he crosses the room, and I'm sure he brought me flowers. I wish he hadn't. I don't want him to feel sorry for me.

"I can't leave you alone for a minute," Mulder cracks as he comes around the side of the bed. I guess the fact that I'd called him myself assured him I wasn't too badly hurt, and he feels free to joke. I don't respond, and it wipes the smile off his face. "How you feeling?" he asks, setting a small bouquet of flowers on my bedside table.

I shrug, rolling onto my back. "Sore, but pretty much fine."

He moves in to take a closer look at the bruising on my face, and I do my best to avoid his eyes. "Your doctor says you were lucky to come off so good. Said he was surprised you had no fractures."

"You talked to my doctor?" I ask. It's a common liberty we both usually take, but this time it feels like a violation. I sit up with as little effort as I can manage. Every muscle in my body screams in protest, but I don't want him to know how sore I actually am.

Mulder nods, adjusting the flowers beside me. I think he might be a little hurt that I haven't acknowledged them. "Yeah, I got here a while ago, but you were sleeping. I talked to your doctor, then I went to question that Jerse guy."

"Hasn't he already been questioned pretty thoroughly?" I ask, unable to keep the irritation from my voice. It's not so much that I feel defensive of Ed in any way, but Mulder is supposed to be here as my friend, not an investigator.

He shrugs, "He's been in and out of consciousness since it happened. Pretty heavily doped up on pain killers too. They're keeping him here in the burn unit until he improves enough to be transferred to jail."

I feign disinterest, reaching for the bag of my things Mulder picked up from my motel. I feel bad for Ed, despite the fact that he tried to kill me only hours ago. I hate to say it given how things turned out, but we had a good time on our date. He was sweet, and he was a gentleman. And after first grabbing me, he waited for cues from me to take anything further. He was a nice guy, right up until he attacked me.

"I'm told he'll be charged with the murder of his neighbour. And possibly attempted murder," he adds, nodding towards me. 

He wants me to tell him what happened, but I can see that he's already heard all he needs to hear. He probably read my statement too. "Did you get everything?" I ask, searching through the bag.

"Everything I could find," he tells me. "Your doctor says you can go as soon as you're ready. Your cat scan was clear."

"Thanks," I tell him, somewhat bitterly. It would have been nice to hear that bit of news from my doctor. I get up and head for the bathroom, bringing my bag with me. It takes me longer to dress than I would have liked. Sore muscles and a pounding headache tend to slow you down. And after examining my face in the mirror for longer than necessary, I try to cover up some of the bruising with make up. I soon give up, realizing it's no use. My light coloured foundation is no match for the darkening splotches that litter the right side of my face.

"You ready?" Mulder asks when I emerge, looking far more put together than I feel.

I chew the inside of my lip for a moment before telling him, "Can you pull the car around? I need to do something first."

He shakes his head and grabs the flowers off the table. "You're not going to see him, Scully," he tells me firmly.

"It's not really up to you, is it?" I say, more loudly than I intended.

"I already questioned him, and the police will do a more thorough job of it later. He's a soon to be convicted murderer, Scully. You can follow his trial on the news."

With that, he's out the door and heading for the elevators. I follow him, stopping at the nurses station to sign myself out of the hospital. He waits for me, with his finger on the 'door open' button, but I bypass the elevator in favour of the stairwell. I don't know what he does at that point, but I head for the burn unit. I have no overwhelming desire to see Ed again, but I feel like I need to talk to him myself.

The police guard lets me in after I flash my badge, and I wait for the heavy door to close before heading over to his bed. Somewhat ridiculously, his uninjured arm is handcuffed to the bedrail. The man is barely conscious and on some serious pain killers, according to his charts. He's in no shape to go anywhere. I take in his appearance, right arm bandaged from fingertips to shoulder so thoroughly it appears four times the size it actually is. An IV of saline solution and medication drips into his handcuffed arm. He is bare to the waist, a sheen of sweat covering him. His hair is stuck to his forehead in wisps. I can almost feel the heat radiating off of him. I check his chart again to ensure he is receiving antibiotics. 

Ed stirs after a moment, and I reflexively smile when his eyes flutter open. He looks confused, but more as to why I'm there than who I am. "Are you okay?" he croaks out. He tries and fails to sit up, momentarily forgets he doesn't have use of either arm.

I nod hesitantly. It doesn't occur to me to be afraid of him. Whatever it was in him that made him attack me was not even remotely there in the hours we spent together before, nor is it there now. "How are you?" It's the only thing I can think to ask.

He takes a quick visual survey of himself, from the fully bandaged arm, to the IV sticking out of the other arm. He rattles the handcuffs against the bedrail. "All things considered? Pretty shitty," he manages a smile.

I force a chuckle for his benefit and lean against the side of his bed. I fidget with the flap of my jacket pocket, unsure of what to say. When I finally look up, he's staring intently at me. 

"I am sorry, Dana," he says sincerely. I don't know if he means for everything, or if he's just talking about what he did to me. "That guy...it wasn't me."

"I know," I tell him, my voice quiet. I can't help the flashes of memory that come to me: his mouth on mine; his hands undressing me; his strong arms easily lifting me up against the wall; his eyes looking deep into mine, so full of desire and innocence. I shift my weight to my other foot, leaning away from him. I consider taking his hand, but don't.

We avoid each other's eyes for a while, until he finally asks, "You don't hear it, do you?"

He's talking about my tattoo, I know. I haven't had any adverse effects from it, but I will seriously consider getting the red ink removed once it heals. I shake my head no and I can see the relief in his eyes. "You?" I ask, my brow furrowed with worry.

He shakes his head, "Not anymore." We both look at his charred and bandaged arm. As effective as his method was, I think I'll opt for some laser removal, if anything. After a moment, he looks up at me, his eyes wet. "Will they tell my kids what I did?"

I shrug, taking his good hand in mine. I can see the man I went out with, not the man who attacked me. I don't think the latter even exists anymore. "I don't know, Ed. I guess that's up to you and their mother."

He nods, "More her than me."

"Talk to her. Explain what happened," I suggest.

He smiles, and I can tell he thinks it's a lost cause. He fidgets with my fingers, seeming to take comfort in my touch. "I guess a second date is out of the question?" he asks after a long silence.

I can't help but smile at his reference to the conversation we had in the early hours of the morning, naked and wrapped in a blanket on his couch. We wondered what kind of date is appropriate to follow a night of self-loathing induced drinking, tattoos and sex. We never came up with anything, but decided we'd brain storm after some sleep and breakfast. "I don't think I'm gonna be allowed out to play for a while after this," I joke, knowing he knows I'm referring to a certain 'father'.

"Me neither," he chuckles, jangling his cuffs again. 

Not that I had forgotten, but it reminds me who I'm talking to--a killer. "I should probably get going," I tell him, relinquishing his hand and taking a step back. I feel bad for ditching Mulder after he came to get me, but I'm thankful he hasn't shown up to drag me out of Ed's room. 

"Can I call you?" he asks, and I'm not sure if he's clinging to the idea of developing a relationship, or if he's simply just insuring he'll have human contact once he's in jail.

I put my hands in my pockets and look down. "I think we both know that's not a good idea, Ed," I tell him, and he nods. I want to tell him to call someone. Someone who'll get him good legal help. And medical help. And mental help. But all I manage is, "Take care of yourself." Before I walk away, he lifts his good hand and gives me a weak wave goodbye. I grab his hand for just a moment and squeeze it, giving him a small smile before I turn and leave.

_______________________________________________________________________

"All this because I didn't get you a desk?"

I look up, slightly surprised. Does he honestly believe I make my life choices based on office furniture? "Not everything is about you Mulder. This is my life," I assure him with more confidence than I feel.

"Yes, but it's m--" he trails off, thankfully realising this isn't the time for that particular statement.

I don't know how long we sit in silence, neither of us wanting to be the first one to speak. There is a sort of spell that's been cast upon us, brought on by Mulder's halted sentiment of my life being his too. I assume if one of us acknowledges it out loud, that might break the spell. But as it stands, we both know what he was going to say. And it's not untrue. And I don't think I even mind it so much. What Mulder doesn't seem to understand though is that part of my actions in Philadelphia were out of frustration at not having any part of my life that is just my own. I have a life, sure, but it consists of being at work, and being at home. And much of that time (home included) is spent with Mulder. And what isn't is generally spent with my family. 

I can't clearly remember the last time I went out on a date or went out with friends. Hell, I can't even remember when I last talked to one of my friends. Most of them have fallen away, pulled in different directions by marriage or kids or a lack of desire to keep in contact with someone who may or may not be halfway across the country at any given time, nearly getting themselves killed. Every guy I've dated since starting on the X-Files has been ditched in favour of work, either because he couldn't deal with my job or because I didn't want to put forth the effort to balance life and work. To say I regret these choices would be wrong--I firmly believe it would have worked out if I had been with the right person. But what bothers me about this conscious choice to be alone is how much it had to do with Mulder, whether I realised it at the time or not.

He just seems to be everywhere, all the time in my life lately. Even when I talk to my mother, one of the first things she asks me is how Mulder is doing. And these conversations are less and less to do with me as time goes on. They consist mostly of updates on family and friends and how they are getting on with their lives. Bill and Tara and their struggles to have a child. Charlie and his mood swings and if I have any insight into what's going on with him. How long it's been since dad died and what random belonging of Melissa's she's found around the house lately. The only person my mom talks less about than me is herself. But I have no one to blame but myself I suppose. There's only so many progress reports you can give with no actual progress before people lose interest.

And the worst part is, I don't even know what progress I'd make. I don't plan on moving any time soon--I'm hardly home anyways, so there would be no point. I've got no plans for kids any time in the near future (or even the distant future). Kids would require a bigger place, a different job, and a little something called a man. I suppose I could do without the last item, but lately I've been thinking a lot about the opposite sex. And again, that's because of Mulder. Not in -that- way, but because of how he acts sometimes. He just does things every so often (brings me tea in the morning, makes me laugh, buys me flowers when I'm in the hospital, tries to tidy up the office to make me happy) that remind me of why having somebody in your life can be a good thing. All too often I focus on the negative--the seeming inevitability of breaking up, the fact that sharing my feelings is almost physically painful, some lingering abandonment issues I can only assume are caused by my father constantly leaving us for work. Sometimes I forget there are little things I actually miss when I'm alone. 

I had been considering progress at work for a while now, but before my trip to Philadelphia Mulder not so subtly reminded me that's not happening any time soon. He is the senior agent in this partnership, though he rarely brings it up. He just chose to throw it in my face at exactly the wrong time by assigning me a case to keep me busy while he was away. And then it all just started seeming so obvious--my name isn't on the door. It was when I had an office upstairs, but I chose to come down here and my name plate disappeared. I don't even have a name plate on the desk, let alone a desk in and of itself. I see his point that we don't have enough room for two desks. But surely we could find room on his desk for another name plate. Or we could stick it in the back area of the office that is apparently 'mine'. I guess I should thank him for allowing me the privilege of sharing his desk and filing cabinet and his god damned coat rack. Or I should just move back upstairs. That would teach him a lesson. I would do that, but I know it would just mean wasting time coming down here every day anyways. Because I'm stuck here. Because I've been given this assignment to the X-Files with no concrete way to complete it and no discernible time line for getting out. And if I'm being honest with myself, I don't want out. Because I actually love this job. And I've become accustomed to the infuriating (sometimes) asshole that now sits across from me, still looking around awkwardly as if something to say is going to appear to him out of nowhere.

I should put him out of his misery, I suppose, but I'm not quite ready to. I think I'd be fine if he hadn't treated me the way he did. Making light of my involvement in the X-Files by reminding me it's his life, and I've just been assigned to it. Calling me while I was in Philadelphia and questioning how I was handling the case. Treating the idea of me having a date as something completely unbelievable. Upon seeing me in the hospital, cracking a joke about not being able to leave me on my own. And then hinting at the idea of me learning a lesson from the experience. He continued this morning, derision in his tone when he told me I looked better than I did in the hospital, and then informing me I hold the record for number of personal appearances in the X-Files. Most of these comments were received with nothing more than silence. I understand, he uses humour to cover up his discomfort. Then he can also understand I use passive aggressive silence to cover up my anger. The one thing I am glad of is that he didn't even try to ask me about Ed Jerse. I mean, it's mostly in my police statement, which I know Mulder read. But he at least respected my privacy enough to not ask for further details. All I had said was that I'd gone out with Ed and then spent the night. The events of the following morning thankfully didn't require a description of what went on between the time we got back to his place and when he attacked me. I don't particularly care if Mulder ever finds out I slept with Ed (it's a pretty easy conclusion to draw anyways), it just goes back to the idea of having things that are mine alone. Even if that thing is a one night stand with someone who later tried to kill me. This is what my life has become. And he thinks it's because I don't have a fucking desk.

I sigh, and it practically echoes off the cold walls of Mulder's office. I rip apart the flower petal in my hands over and over, rendering it unrecognizable as something that used to be beautiful. I get up, the legs of my chair scraping loudly on the floor, and throw the ruined flower in the garbage. I briefly consider heading to my area, but honestly don't know what to do there. After a moment of hesitation, I turn towards the door and leave.


End file.
